


All the Fun of the Faire

by Dustbunnygirl



Series: Tales of the Bard - Reggie's Story [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-08
Updated: 2007-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8009053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: All the Fun of the Faire, 10 of 10<br/>Prompt: Festival, "the 10s" challenge.<br/>Fandom: n/a<br/>Pairing: Dahlia/Reggie<br/>Rating: Oh, PG-13 I guess. Doesn't go as far as R, no matter how much they might want it to.<br/>Word count: 2,439<br/>Warnings: Lots of possibly dirty things get alluded to. My poor characters are doomed to a lifetime of innuendo. Don't you pity them?<br/>Disclaimer: The poor pathetic, doomed to celibacy lunkheads are mine. The KC Renfest is owned by…people that aren't me. But I just borrowed it for the lunkheads to go traipsing through in pretty outfits and put it back just as it was when I was done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Fun of the Faire

“A rose for the pretty lady?”

“Some jewelry’d go lovely with that beer, m’lord.”

“Come try me nuts! Me red hot nuts!”

Noise and color assaulted Dahlia from every direction. As falling leaves of green, gold, and crimson rained down from the trees, vendors dressed in tunics and breeches or dresses and corsets hawked their wares from clapboard booths, the quality of their accents and decibels of their shouts varying from one to the next as widely as the goods they had for sale. Bright banners dangled from poles and windows and easements. Wooden signs hung from storefronts and advertised everything from elf ears to fairy wings and a few more mundane things – turkey legs and cheesecake on a stick and beer prominent among them. The first timers stood out from the veteran guests; they took everything in with wide, bright eyes and pointed at every bulging pair of tights or bursting set of cleavage that crossed their view. 

It was like a scene from a fairy tale, as directed by Tim Burton. The real world, with its cell phones and combustion engines, stopped at the edge of the gravel parking lot in front of the Kansas City Renaissance Festival. One step over the invisible line drawn in the grass and time and reality ceased to exist. In their place were legend and myth, mortal history mixed with fairy tales. The ones walking around in jeans and tees and running shoes were the anachronistic blasphemers, bucking against the magic and the mood. When Dahlia stepped through the gate, she wondered if this was what it was like for her dad the day he crossed over. Wondered if reality looked as surreal to him the first time he saw it.

For the hundred and tenth time that day, Dahlia tugged at the front of her gown. No matter how many times she tried to convince the bodice to stay put the tightly-laced purple velvet would creep down again, exposing the pale skin of her chest to cloud-filtered sunlight. How she let herself get talked into it in the first place was a mystery. The fluted sleeves buried her hands, she kept stepping on the hem as it dragged the ground, and there wasn’t a single pocket anywhere. She would’ve sewn in at least one pocket, if she’d made it. Pockets are essential, or so she believed.

Warm fingers closed around her wrist and guided her left hand to her side as a mustache tickled the skin beneath her ear. “Stop fidgeting,” the whisper said, every syllable causing the mustache to twitch and send little shivers down Dahlia’s spine. Not fair, she thought as her other arm dropped of its own volition. Not fair at all.

“I’d fidget less if it’d just stay put.” She turned to face her tormentor, if only to make the tickling stop and let her brain function again. Reggie was dressed in a white tunic and a doublet and hose the same purple as Dahlia’s gown. The ensemble, procured from the University’s drama department by Guy, was finished off with a pair of period-looking black boots and a plastic rapier, for effect. When Guy offered to play costumer for their trip, he’d tried to talk Reggie into something more regal, but the short-lived monarch refused. “Better off to go with something simple,” was all he’d say when Guy tried to press the point.

“It’s staying put just fine,” he said, smacking a hand when she reached to fiddle with the neckline again. “That’s how it’s supposed to look.”

“Easy for you to say. None of you’s just hanging out there for the world to see.”

“One, you’re not ‘hanging out there’. It’s a perfectly respectable amount of décolletage.” His eyes drifted as he spoke to take in the relatively demure display, which earned him a smack to the shoulder. “And two,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m not exactly secured from the waist down in armor here myself.”

“Oh yeah,” Dahlia said, bending at the waist to try to peek up the bottom hem of his doublet. “You’ve got that little pouchy thing to worry about, don’t you? Hey, at least you’ve got somewhere to keep spare change.”

Reggie glared and stepped back, cutting off her view. “That’s not what it’s for,” he said, tugging the doublet down to further obstruct her line of sight. “And not so ‘little’ either, I’ll have you know. It’s a more than adequate size for a…”

“For a what?”

“Nevermind.” Reggie took the map and schedule out of Dahlia’s hand and started scanning the latter. “Weren’t there some pirates you wanted to see?”

“For a what?”

“Dahlia…”

Dahlia took a step away, just out of Reggie’s reach, and began bouncing on the balls of her feet to the beat of the music coming from a nearby stage. Her hair, worn down and loose in gentle waves, licked at her shoulders like heatless flame with every bounce. “For a what, for a what, for a what what what?”

Reggie took a step forward and grabbed her hand. As he pulled her along he shook his head. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“For a what?”

“I’ll draw you a diagram later.”

Dahlia stopped suddenly, causing Reggie’s arm to jerk. Wicked delight danced in her eyes and caused the corners of her mouth to curl. “Oooh, promise?” Reggie, to her surprise, closed the space between them in two strides. His free hand gripped her shoulder; he used the other to pull her still closer. If it weren’t for their joined hands trapped between them he would’ve been close enough to feel her suddenly hammering heartbeat. 

“If we were alone,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion Dahlia’s brain identified as need. His eyes smoldered, black as coal and with a gaze that singed her skin wherever it landed. He was close enough all she could smell was him – his cologne, his hair, the coffee still lingering on his breath. She couldn’t hear the drums anymore. Her heart was the drum, beating faster and faster, pounding out a dizzying rhythm she knew couldn’t last for long. Sooner or later it would give out from the strain. But the thought didn’t scare her. In that moment, she would gladly die if she could spend her last seconds being consumed by those eyes.

Then Reggie blinked, snuffing out the fire as easily as if it were a single candle flickering on a mantle. His grip loosened on her arm as he stepped back, letting light and reality and noise filter through in his wake. “If I weren’t a gentleman,” he said, his gaze dropping to their still-joined hand, “it would be more than a diagram I’d be offering.”

Dahlia found her voice, no matter how little the hoarse whisper sounded like hers. “Reggie…”

“Come on,” he interrupted, tugging her forward by the hand he still held. “We’ve got a whole faire to see yet and our costumes turn to misdemeanors if we don’t get them back to the theatre department before dark.”

Dahlia opened her mouth to finish what had been interrupted, but left it unsaid. For now, she told herself as she followed the gentle pull on her arm into the throng of visitors and performers. Later. She would find the right moment and bring it up again. Portions of that conversation needed to be revisited, whether he thought so or not.

They spent the morning winding their way through the shops on the left side of the map, tension present but buried like a layer of treacherous ice waiting on the road beneath a dusting of snow. Most of the time Dahlia could forget she was supposed to be waiting for that perfect moment. Reggie teased her about a pair of glittery pink fairy wings she insisted she had to buy. Dahlia accused him of drooling all over every sword they passed. They laughed their way through the Robin Hood stunt show and would’ve made it to lunch without incident if Robin hadn’t kissed her hand after she’d dropped a couple dollars in his hat as she passed. She didn’t need to see the way Reggie's posture tensed or his eyes narrowed. She recognized the angry hiss behind her and only hoped no one else heard it. It was the sound of a pissed off ferret and she’d heard it often enough to know it meant trouble.

Reggie didn’t say anything when Dahlia suggested they find lunch or that she was absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent starving to death. He didn’t say anything at all, in fact, even as she dragged him past every food stand between Yorkshire Wharf and the Wildewood, through the Olde North Bramble and Three Lions Grove. Dahlia didn’t stop until she ran out of road to drag him down. It was only luck her trek more or less dead-ended beneath a “Turkey Leg” sign. 

She spun to ask Reggie what he wanted, but he beat her to the punch.

“Find somewhere to sit,” he said, only a hint of anything off still there in his voice. When she opened her mouth to object, he lifted his hand to stop her. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay right here. No tracking down rogues to teach them whatfor.”

“Wasn’t worried about that,” she said in turn, before leaning up to leave a kiss on his cheek. “Head west when you’re done. I’m moseying that-a-way.” She pointed to the Royal Gardens just across the path and waited for his nod before wandering off. When she looked back to make sure he was still standing there in line, he caught her look and waved. It was the only time she looked back. 

It was warm in the dress and Dahlia welcomed the promise of a little shade and a cold drink. She shunned the benches and tables in favor of the cool grass beneath one of the trees still in possession of most of its leaves. As she leaned back against the trunk and closed her eyes, she remembered a different tree, a different afternoon, and the fall of white petals instead of brown leaves against her face. The time since consisted of a matter of months, a handful of days compared against a lifetime, but it felt so long ago. So many things had changed since the afternoon she opened her eyes and found a man, not a ferret, staring down at her.

Something cold brushed her neck, shocking her out of her thoughts. This time Reggie was smiling down at her when she opened her eyes. “Would milady like a beer and a gigantic leg of some form of poultry?”

“You actually got turkey legs?”

He shook his head. “Stuffed pretzels.”

“No mead?”

“Given that our combined alcohol tolerance hovers somewhere around ‘a toddler on an empty stomach’ I thought I’d stick with something simple.”

“Bright boy.” Dahlia reached up for the cups precariously held in Reggie’s left hand but he pulled them away.

“Lean up first.”

Dahlia pouted, mostly because she was being denied her well-earned beer. “But the trunk’s comfortable.”

“And I’m not? Scoot up, woman, or I'll feed your pretzel to the squirrels."

Dahlia did as told, but not before looking anxiously up into the tree behind her and the others in the vicinity. Some people disliked snakes. Some were scared of sharks. Squirrels were Dahlia's nemesis, though nobody could ever get her to explain why. Not even Reggie. 

"Not fair, using the s word to get your way," she grumbled as Reggie claimed the spot behind her and leaned his weight into the ragged bark. Once settled, he set the beer to one side, the plate with the pretzels to the other, snagged Dahlia around the waist and hauled her back against him. She didn't struggle for principle's sake or out of mock annoyance, didn't shriek about grass stains or doing any sort of damage to the dress. She simply leaned back and sighed, content, when his arms slipped around and held her there.

"Don't worry. You're safe with me," he whispered against her hair when her head fell back to rest its weight on his shoulder. 

Dahlia bit her lip, tried to hold the next words at bay. But they came tumbling out all the same, prying her teeth loose with the force of the rush. "You know," she said, lifting her head from his shoulder enough to catch his eyes. "Sometimes it wouldn't be so bad to not be so safe with you."

She expected Reggie to tense, expected him to pull away like he had before. He kissed her forehead instead, then the tip of her nose, then each eyelid in turn. Each touch was a promise, sealing words that hadn't managed to clear his throat yet. "You'll always be safe with me," he said, a hoarse whisper-caress as his lips brushed over hers. "But I can't guarantee you'll always be safe from me."

Dahlia smiled, lazy and wanton, drawing a hand up his arm to curl at the nape of his neck. "Maybe you're the one who's not safe from me." 

A kiss was the answer, wordless and wild. They kissed until their lips were swollen and bruised, until Dahlia couldn't tell her breath from his or if the heartbeat in her ears was her own or if it belonged to him. His fingers dug into her shoulders and she wondered if he was trying to hold on that tight or if he needed the firm grip to keep them from wandering too far. 

Dahlia pulled away first, needing air and a reminder of where they were and who their potential audience was. Reggie reached up to brush hair back from her face. She wiped smeared lipstick from his bottom lip and watched the inferno in his eyes burn down to something closer to a simmer. Then Reggie reached for the plate to his left; Dahlia retrieved the cups of beer from his right. He sat the former in her lap and reached around her to tear a piece from his pretzel. 

"Oh," he said, rummaging behind him with his free hand while Dahlia looked on in confusion. He finally found what he was looking for, a folded dollar bill left behind in the shuffle for comfort and kisses. 

"Your change, milady," he said, and when she reached for the bill he plucked it away and tucked it daintily between her velvet-framed bosom without so much as a finger's graze. Dahlia looked at the bill, then at him, then at the bill again, before elbowing him squarely in the ribs.

"That's not what they're for!"


End file.
